


Numb

by pregnantzombie



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: 1st POV, Angst probably, Chapter 5 closure, Choking, Graphic descriptions, M/M, Spoilers, kissin'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 04:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11524113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pregnantzombie/pseuds/pregnantzombie
Summary: “You should trust me,” I announce. “I pledged myself to you!”“You had no choice,” he retorts.“I’m a man of my word!”“You’re a bigger fraud than I am,” he snaps back and breaks away from my arms to stumble towards the camera rig. “Get in the press. We’re running out of time.”I stare at him, shocked by the insult and hurt that it’s based in a deep truth.





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**Author's Note:**

> Hello I had a lot of feelings regarding chapter 5, as I'm sure many of you did. I wanted a sense of closure or understanding about the kinds of emotions and confusion these two must have gone through in those final moments together, so I wanted to explore that.
> 
> Thanks for taking the time to check this out! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

I had originally schemed up a pretty romantic gesture. Granted, I hadn’t quite pieced together all the details, but the bones were all there. It was classic, a completely heroic plan that someone such as myself definitely would have been able to pull off. I’d stand off with the villain, tout some really cool lines that would go down in history, and the legendary Momota Kaito would be remembered throughout all time and space as the champion of the meek and the man who changed the world for the better. And the best part of all? I certainly thought it was a bit sentimental to go after my captor with the crossbow that Harumaki taught me to build and use. She’s so cool, the only way to get on her level would be to prove I’m just as skilled and awesome as she is. And maybe...just maybe, in the end I could rescue her and she’d swoon and be like, “Oh, Momota-kun, my savior, my hero!” And...and then maybe I’d take her hand and she might even let me… ...

At any rate, I’m getting ahead of myself. Because I was wrong. I was twenty different kinds of wrong. 

It might be hard to believe, since I’m world-renowned and famous even in space, but I had made a rookie mistake. I think the word is hubris. I was too confident that my genius plan would come to fruition without a hitch and I’d obviously succeed in my endeavors that I definitely failed to come up with a backup plan, and more importantly I failed to consider all the potential factors that could have occurred completely out of my control. Part of me wants to be defensive about it, considering the chaotic circumstances anything at all could have happened. Another more negative part of me thinks I’m a total fucking idiot, a fraud who cheated his way into this role and has no chance of success and no business claiming the status that I do. Most of me, however, feels weak and nauseous while a pain like no other I’ve ever experienced throbs persistently through my arm, resonating in my chest and pulsing horribly through all my limbs.

There’s no grandeur left. There’s no romance, no reconciliation, no heroic climax followed by the downfall of evil. There’s no hope, no resolution, and most of all there’s no Harumaki. She’s gone, the shutters are dropped, and there’s only me in this little cell with that fucking bastard Ouma. I can’t think of a less dignified way to die than being accidentally poisoned by a cute girl I was trying to impress and then giving up and wasting away on the dirty floor next to a toilet. It’s pretty bleak.

Ouma looks totally deranged. Somehow despite the arrow stuck through his skinny arm, he manages to chuck the electro-bomb he had on hand well across the room. It sparks and explodes, rendering all the devices useless. Through the blast he laughs in an eerily light hearted manner, as though he’s a little child delighted in a fireworks display. I am beginning to feel a bit delirious, but try to focus on even breathing. I won’t let him win.

“We have two hours,” he turns to me, announcing this fact airily as though to completely disregard both my plight as well as Harumaki’s. 

I scowl and spit a mouthful of blood to the floor. How can he say that as calmly as someone would comment on the weather? For a prolonged moment, neither of us say anything. I’m admittedly a bit ashamed that I’m hunched over in agony with just one arrow in my arm while he manages stand tall and proud under the same circumstances, plus an extra arrow wedged firmly between the knobs of his spine. Then again, that piece of shit gut-punched me and stole the only antidote. Of course he can tolerate it more...there isn’t poison coursing through him and slowly stealing his life.

“Are you scared?” Ouma smiles in that nasty, hateful way as he strides towards me in slow deliberate steps. “Can you feel the despair overwhelming you?”

“No,” the indignant retort barks out past my lips without hesitation.

I’m left no time to smirk back at him or revel in my contrarian behavior, though. Before I realize it, thin fingers have coiled themselves around my neck in a firm stranglehold. I splutter and instinctively attempt to swallow but his grip proves surprisingly effective for such a fragile looking person and I gag and fail to meet my own body’s demands. I can feel my heartbeat thumping erratically against his palm as I dare to look up into his eyes. His thin eyebrows furl inward over his doe-like eyes, strangely innocent and gentle hues of amethyst contrasting greatly with the malice behind them. He bares his teeth at me and snarls, a nasty hissing sound passing through them and over his small lips, squeezing my neck even harder all the while. I’m getting dizzier, cloudy mind and cloudy vision from the full assault from both inside and outside my body. In that moment, I claw a bit at his hands to nonverbally beg him to release me. It’s strange, but in that moment as well, I realize somewhere in the back of my mind that this is the first and only time I have touched his hands. They feel so small in mine, somehow less rough and disturbingly soft. The whole situation is surreal and unsettling.

“Don’t you ever lie to me,” Ouma articulates each word in a hushed, thoughtful tone as he pushes on my windpipe, choking me to a point where I teeter dangerously on the edge of consciousness. “I’m a liar. I can tell every time if someone is lying to me. Now… I asked you a question. Are you scared?”

He releases me and for a blissful moment everything goes black as the oxygen floods my starving brain, then the colors and sensations scramble back into some semblance of clarity. I want nothing more than to punch him in his smug little mouth, knocking out a few teeth while I’m at it and force him to choke on his own blood like I’ve been doing all along. I want to hurt him and take away the pleasure he has of the flavors of the stolen antidote still lingering on his tongue. But instead, I cower. I wheeze and whimper below him, and somehow through some strange power only a person like Ouma possesses… I bend to his whims. He’s petite. He’s slender. He looks somehow very delicate. And yet, as he looms above my much larger, injured body, Ouma has managed to make me feel very small.

“Yes,” I hear my raspy voice cough out the more honest response to his cruel question. Of course I’m fucking scared. Even heroes are naturally inclined to feel scared when they know they’re going to die.

Again, he moves quickly and takes me by surprise. It’s only now that I notice he’s been clutching the antidote bottle in his maimed hand all the while. His good arm wraps itself around my shoulders and he leans my head back, pressing the bottle to my lips. Lukewarm fluid spills into my mouth and my body naturally laps it up like a hungry, starving animal. It burns on the way down my throat but I keep gulping the few meager swigs until the container runs dry. It hurts, coating my esophagus in the sizzling ichor. Yet somehow it’s simultaneously soothing and refreshing. I’m confused beyond a shadow of a doubt and too dumbstruck to stop the event as it unfolds. I saw Ouma drink the antidote. How is this happening? 

“Yeah,” he agrees casually, forcing the very last drops to slither their way onto my tongue. “With death leering at you in complete certainty, it can seem scary. But… isn’t the uncertainty of life ahead a much bigger horror?”

I can feel myself gaping at him. The effects of the little potion seem to start working immediately and the cogs and wheels in my brain begin turning again. It registers to me that in this moment, I’m going to live. And continuing that thought, I realize this fucking brat is right- I’m terrified of it.

“But...why?!” I demand of him, sort of unable to parse together a more intelligent thought right now.

“Why?” Ouma curls his lips sharply over his line of straight teeth.

I don’t need to dignify this or prolong it any further so I glare up at him, awaiting his response.

“Because,” his eyes glow brightly in a frighteningly dark way in contrast to his pale skin. “For the rest of my life, I own you.”

That’s a multifaceted thought he’s put out there and it makes me frown to try to absorb it all. 

“Now what the fuck are you getting at?”

“It’s a life debt, Momota-chan,” he winks cheekily, but as I recover from the poison’s sting I begin to notice the signs of his increasing frailty as the injuries he’s sustained take their toll. “It means I’ve saved your life in place of my own, and for that...you’ll do anything I say.” 

In an instant I’m on edge again, grappling with the onslaught of complicated notions of honor and morality fighting with my sheer, unbridled hatred for this guy. I don’t know what he’s getting at, but I know I don’t like it.

“I won’t,” I announce firmly, determined not to give in.

“You will,” he confirms as though it’s a matter of fact and leans in very close.

He smells like blood and sweat and something sugary that makes the little hairs inside my nose curl. My heart races erratically inside my chest, thumping hard and almost painfully.

“You will because you care about Harukawa-chan,” his voice sounds flat in my ears, cryptic yet firm. “You care about Saihara-chan.”

My eyes bulge in their sockets, a pang of worry causing my heart to stop for a moment and swell behind my ribs in fear. Pools of sweat form along the creases of my palms.

“What do you want?” I ask him, but I ensure my tone of voice denotes anger and reluctance rather than complacency and obedience.

“I want you to kill me,” his features turn soft and he looks somehow serene, making me almost wish he’d go back to making that grotesque face.

I search him, waiting for the line where he chuckles in that impish way and tells me that was a lie. But it never comes. So I stare at him in abject dismay for a moment or so.

“I know you’re a complete idiot, Momota-chan, but can you not stare at me with that ugly stupid face?”

“I’m not gonna kill you!”

As soon as I bark out the words, something stings the side of my cheek. It’s then that I realize he slapped me, the aftermath of his small palm and narrow fingers burning against my sensitive flesh. My eye waters up on the side he struck. That little shit can hit pretty hard…

“Idiot!” Ouma seethes at me. “You realize I gave you the antidote, right?”

He paces a few steps back in forth in front of me while I hunch on the ground like a wounded dog. He runs his hands a few times through his violet tresses, agitated and impatient. He reaches towards me again and grips the collar of my shirt as though this will somehow help him emphasize whatever point he’s trying to make.

“Momota-chan, are you so entirely stupid that you don’t realize what that means?”

Our eyes lock and my mind goes blank, waiting for the explanation. I’m sure I could figure it out if I bothered to think, but I’m exhausted and stressed and distracted by the way the light casts shadows over his broad, childish face and the way I can practically see him thinking if I look deeply enough into the lavender rings in his irises. So I say nothing and swallow the hard lump in my throat.

“It means I’m going to die anyway,” he gives me a hard look and for the first time I know he’s being nothing but genuine. “The poison is going to work its way through my body until I succumb and die. And what happens next? None of you mourn me. Everyone knows it was Harukawa-chan. The trial goes on, that stupid pig bitch gets the axe, and the killing game continues. Is that what you want? Is that what you want, Momota-chan?!”

He shakes my shoulders frantically, looking more than a bit possessed by something.

“No,” I whisper in a weak voice that doesn’t sound much like my own.

“I’m going to win this killing game, Momota-chan,” he whispers back before working his way back into a crescendo. “Do you have any idea how much thought I’ve put into this? Any idea how much delicate consideration has gone into this plan?! And now that I have you, my obedient apostate, there will be no stopping me from turning the tables!”

He stands up straight to loom over me and cackle, but halfway through he decides the arrow in his arm is a bother and in one quick motion yanks it out from inside him. It’s more than even the adrenaline can make up for and he yelps in pain. The arrow clangs against the floor and he clutches his arm, doubled over in pain as he whimpers like a frightened kitten. It’s all so uncomfortable to watch. I bite my lip and don’t know what to do. In the back of my mind I’m agonizingly aware that I’m watching him slowly die. We’ve been thrown into this horrific situation and I’ve seen my classmate’s battered bodies, and I’ve seen the gruesome executions...but in this particular and fragile sense, I’ve never seen someone dying before. I’m not sure how to think or feel or respond, but strangely I think I understand the coping mechanisms he’s using. Even in this awful situation, I think some of my lingering humanity is shining through because I find myself feeling sincere pity for the maniac in front of me, Ouma Kokichi.

“What do you think you’re staring at, you worthless waste of an antidote,” he regains enough strength to degrade me and bark orders. “Stop gawking at me with those dead fish eyes and get this thing out of my back!”

Without hesitation I scramble to my knees and sidle up next to him, wrapping my hand around the arrow’s shaft. It’s in there deep, tattered cloth stuck all around the gorey protrusion. I frown at it so intensely my cheeks hurt from the effort.

“That looks real fuckin’ bad,” I state out loud, assessing the obvious.

“I didn’t ask how it looked,” he grouses. “I ordered you to get it out of there.”

I grit my teeth and clutch the arrow, bracing myself for the next step. I don’t want to do this, but I know there’s no other choice. I want to close my eyes; I don’t want to see it. But what if I make it worse by not concentrating? I mean… I really do hate this kid. But, I also really do feel bad for him. I bite my lip and steady myself before doing my best to remove the lodged weapon as quickly and as cleanly as possible. I yank hard and it doesn’t want to come out. Ouma lurches and howls, his small hands suddenly reach over and grip into my thighs. Blood trickles from the wound in his arched back and he gasps in futile attempts to steady his labored breaths.

“Stop fucking around and get it out!”

His voice rings shrilly in the otherwise silent air and I struggle to extract the arrowhead. His fingers sink deeply into my leg and it’s the most terrible and unique sense of something like a second hand pain. Like yeah, he’s hurting me...but it’s sort of giving me a brief glimpse into his world, a small taste of the agony he’s enduring. It’s only another moment or so until I get the thing out of his spine but it feels like eternities have passed. His clutch only intensifies upon the successful removal and the trickle of blood surges to a splatter and then to a gush. I instinctively drop the weapon and push my palm against it in an attempt to apply pressure. He’s losing quite a bit of blood here. Not enough to bleed out and die but surely enough that he must be feeling light headed. He wheezes beneath me and it’s so strange...now I’m the one in power and he’s the one that’s small, but somehow I know in my heart of hearts that I’m committed to do as he asks of me.

Ouma curls up in my lap as he regains his constitution. It’s like holding a little nasty yap dog- I don’t like him, but I somehow want to protect him in this moment of vulnerability. Tentatively, I run a hand through his messy, choppy hair. It feels simultaneously foreign and awkward yet also completely natural since his crumpled little body eases into my touch. He breathes raggedly and I smooth his hair down. I thought it might feel kinda crunchy or something, but it’s in truth soft. It’s thick and full and petting him manages to calm my nerves as much as I hope it’s calming his as well. 

“I’m gonna win this game,” he states in a small voice, speaking into the cloth of my pants. His voice almost indicates that he’s convincing himself more than he’s reminding me of this.

“Mmm,” I grumble a guttural agreement and continue stroking the back of his head.

So here we sit, locked up in a tiny little toilet room with dingy walls, covered in each other’s blood while I hold this tiny, dying monster. My mind wanders a bit as my fingers trace aimless patterns along his scalp and a dismal looking puddle near a drain on the floor catches my eye. The overhead lights play tricks on my eyes and creates an optical illusion. The light, it...it looks like the moon. I can feel myself frowning, forlorn and distraught. I miss the moon so much. I miss looking out into the night, gazing up to that big beautiful rock in the sky hiding behind a veil of misty clouds and filling me with some sense of hope and purpose. But now, there’s no moon, there’s no sky. There’s just an ugly bleak puddle of toilet water on the floor. I’m vaguely aware of the wet heat on my face as thick tears dribble down my cheeks. I feel nothing as they fall aside the viscous sensation on my skin. It’s just something that seems to be happening naturally. Something about it all feels unreal. And then, Ouma goes eerily still in my arms.

“Momota-chan,” he whispers my name and a shudder runs down my spine like a lizard running across hot sand.

“Y...yes, Ouma…?”

“You pledge yourself to me, don’t you? From now until the moment you kill me and I die...you’ll do anything I ask,” he inquires and turns to glance upward at me with those heliotrope eyes that shine bright against the increasing pallor of his cheeks. “Won’t you...Momota-chan…?”

I don’t like the tone of his voice. I can’t place what he’s getting at. I don’t know what he expects of me in the here and now. I can’t fathom what thoughts he must be thinking in the vast privacy of his own mind. I nod my agreement, lost for any coherent words.

“Say it!” Ouma abruptly sits up and knocks me back, somehow mustering enough strength to startle me onto my back and to command me in a domineering voice. “If you’ll do it then use your words and say it!”

I’m startled to say the least and again, he’s on top. This time it’s in a literal sense, as well. He pushes my shoulders down and pins me on the ground beneath himself, looming over me maniacally. I don’t want to fight him off. Am I scared of hurting him, or am I just plain scared of him? ...can it be both?

“Yeah,” I croak out. “I will.”

“No!” Ouma squawks at me and shakes my shoulders, rattling the back of my head against the concrete floor as he exerts what little energy he has left and moves to straddle my waist, holding me down more thoroughly even though I’ve made no attempts to escape his grasp. “No, say it!”

“Okay, okay! I’ll do what you ask! Ouma...Ouma, stop…”

He stops thrashing above me but still holds me beneath him, body shaking and face looking absolutely delirious in a bizarre and upsetting combination of malice and exhaustion. He’s losing his composure and I can both see and feel it all around him. He’s dying and he’s sitting on my stomach in some whacked out last bastion of remaining the alpha dog. I don’t know what to do...so maybe it really is best to just keep him calm and do what he says, for now. Maybe that’s the honorable thing to do here. Or at least, that’s what I’ll convince myself. I reach up to touch his arm gingerly.

“ I own you!” Ouma bellows and slaps my hand away, then curls his fists harshly into the fabric of my jacket and grips my shoulders tight. “Don’t tell me what to do! How dare you tell me what to do!? You’re scum beneath me, Momota-chan! Do you think I gave you that antidote so you can live long and be the hero?! No! You’re nothing more than a pawn in my plan to win against the mastermind! You’re-ack..!”

Suddenly the slender thing above me collapses, exhausted from the poison and his own outburst. He gasps frantically, limp and crumpled atop me, his hot breath against my neck tickles in an unfamiliar but not entirely unpleasant way. Somehow I feel the utmost pity for the deplorable little cretin writhing on my torso. I feel somehow inclined to comfort him but I’m hesitant to speak out of turn again. Instead, my arms wind their way around his thin waist and I embrace him, letting my hands rest delicately against his open wound. We both wince at the contact, though my fingers continue to fidget in the coagulating blood. Eventually we ease into something resembling a very clumsy hug.

“I… I want…” Ouma begins to murmur something into my neck the lilts his head to gaze at me with eyes that look as though they’re made of glass. “I want...to taste the antidote.”

“What…?” I truly don’t know what to make of this and stare at him like a guppy.

He doesn’t explain, but rather feebly leans against me and forces his lips against mine. Naturally, I resist. I try to pull away but there’s no room for it against the cold hard ground. I squirm beneath Ouma, even though my arm still lay across the small of his back.

“Ouma…!” I try to contest the situation and try to pull away, but the moment I open my mouth he slips his tongue between my lips and tastes me.

He sighs into the motion, his unsure movements somehow matching mine in their uncertainty. My mind goes blank and I hold him in place, probably just so that he doesn’t somehow fall. He tastes like copper, though I’m unable to discern if I’m tasting his blood or my own. Still, he presses deeper and licks at the corners of my mouth, leaving flavors that linger and blend in a concoction of sweet sugar and something revoltingly acrid. 

“Ouma,” I mutter his name again, somehow hoping to convey that what we’re doing is wrong, but my voice comes out husky in a gasp and I feel my eyes flutter shut as my body betrays my mind and gives in to him.

It’s strange, how he tastes exactly as he behaves- there’s an innocence that really can’t be feigned coupled with unbridled anger that resonates throughout his entire being. I’m not sure how to convey this but it’s something that can be felt in the way he kisses me. And I have to admit, at this point...it’s no longer a delirious taste, no longer a desperate hope to merely sample the flavors of what could have just as easily been his own salvation. Ouma is blatantly kissing me and despite my initial resistance, I’m kissing him back. It feels relieving and distressing all at once. He’s the one asserting himself here, but somehow I feel like I’m taking advantage of his moment of weakness. I want to stop but I don’t want to be the one to stop it. It’s so wrong and so right and so confusing and I hate it. The heat from our mutual breath mingles each time he pulls away to catch his breath and I can’t tell if his labored breathing is from the exhilaration of the adrenaline of intimacy or if it’s result of the extreme pain he must be enduring. His upper body laxes, though he still clings to me for support. I let my hands fall to his sides, just above his hip bones, and hold him there. It’ll end soon, I’m sure. This is hardly what I thought I’d agreed to, but as I savor the taste of the dying boy in my arms I realize I’m hardly in any position to fight it. 

Ouma’s hips begin to rock against my abdomen. Why is my instinct to flex? I don’t know, but I buckle in place as he rolls his lower body against me in time with the way he slowly, desperately sucks on my tongue. I was anxious but complacent before, but now I’m starting to hate it. I want him off of me. I want to get on with the rest of whatever his plan is. I think I’m panicking. Part of my mind shouts at me over how badly I want to kill him, but it crumbles immediately upon realizing that’s exactly what I am going to have to do and the reality of it is so horrific I’d almost just rather die myself. I can feel the burn of my sickness in my belly along with whatever uncomfortable feelings Ouma is eliciting in me churning together in a nauseating cluster. His hips grind a little harder and I think I’m going to throw up, but my stupid mouth keeps working favorably with his. What the fuck is wrong with this guy?! ...what’s wrong with me…?

As abruptly as it began, it ends and I’m left feeling more confused and distraught than ever. My eyes flutter back into focus as he tears himself away and sits upright on my lap. I’m probably making a really embarrassing face, but I don’t have the wherewithal to do a damn thing about it. Ouma looks down at me, but not with pity, nor does he sneer or show any sign of emotions whatsoever. It’s unsettling.

“We’re wasting time,” he states with a voice as hollow as the look in his eyes. “ Take me to the hangar.” 

It’s still a command and I willingly obey, scrambling to my feet and then help him onto his. He’s like a doll, gormless and unable to support himself. So I sling him over my shoulder and drag him like the dying animal that he is towards the hangar. It’s not far from the toilet, but each step feels like it takes a lifetime to traverse. I feel like I’m watching someone else operating my body, even though everything hurts and is so horrifically real.

“Take everything out of that box,” he points across the room and commands me upon our arrival.

He slumps into a useless heap and waits while I unearth the contents. It’s...papers…? Stacks and stacks of them. Notebooks, loose papers with hastily scratched writing, crass doodles smattered here and there, outlines with dozens of words crossed out and rewritten over and over again. My jaw hurts from frowning so deeply at this. I’m scared to ask him what this all means but I’m honestly unable to figure it out on my own.

“Ouma…” I growl his name a little. “What is this bullshit? We don’t have time for your games!”

He looks at me, small and startled, and breaks into tears. The familiar sound of his sobs makes me cringe.

“I...I worked so h-hard…” Ouma sniffles and hiccups. “I wrote down e-everything for you, M-Momota-chan, and you…!”

He wails some more and I can feel myself getting angry. How dare this shithead accuse me of wasting time and then he gives me these notes from the diary of a madman and bursts into those disgusting crocodile tears? I throw the notebook on the floor and puff out my chest.

“Hey!” I use my most commanding tone. “Stop with the fuckin’ tears and explain this shit, will you?”

He stop immediately and looks quite serious. He stumbles over and retrieves the book from where I discarded it. He’s trembling. I almost feel bad for yelling at him.

“I really did write it all out for you, Momota-chan,” he informs me and plops down on the floor.

I join him and listen as he speaks in a quiet, pained voice as he goes over every detail he’s plotted out. It’s honestly really creepy, the amount of thought he’s put into this. He explains the steps we’ll take to confuse the true mastermind. He explains the steps he’s already taken in preparation. His sentences often cut out and his head droops as he struggles to maintain enough resilience to get through this ordeal. He’s fading and my stomach sinks. At this point, I’m realizing this is going to end up being a mercy killing...to just put an end to his suffering. I wonder what goes on in the complexity of his mind. What thoughts he’s thinking, what emotions he’s feeling. He doesn’t say them though, and I don’t have the heart to ask. I pull him to lean on my shoulder to relieve him of the strain of holding himself upright. We don’t say anything about the gesture, but I can almost feel his physical gratitude.

“Do you understand all that?” Ouma asks me when he concludes the explanation.

“Honestly… not really,” I admit and feel pretty stupid about it.

“You’re as stupid as you look,” he scowls at me and drops his notebook into my lap. “It’s all laid out for you. A monkey could follow it.”

Now it’s my turn to scowl.

“Can you at least figure out the first part, or are you so remarkably dumb that you can’t figure out how to drag me across the floor?”

“Hey! ...shut up!” I really can’t think of a better comeback.

He lays on his back like a flimsy rag someone discarded on the floor and holds his skinny arms up to me. I latch onto his wrists and begin dragging him. He’s small and he’s compliant with being dragged across the ground like a bag of dirty laundry, but it’s actually really a challenge. Like yeah, I’m strong… ha, actually I’m really super strong. But I’m in a lot of pain. The antidote helped a lot, but I still took a fucking arrow to the arm and it hurts like hell and I’m still really sick and worn out. I’m doing better than Ouma...but that’s really and truly not saying much. A slick line of blood trails after him much like the slime trail a snail would leave behind and it makes me feel nauseous to look at it. I have no idea how he looks so numb to the pain. Maybe he’s in shock. Maybe he’s conserving the last of his strength. Maybe he really just doesn’t want me to see him appearing weak. I avert my eyes from his deteriorating body.

“Ouma… how do you know this plan will work?” I ask him as I tug him along, hoping some discussion will somehow improve the morose mood.

“I don’t,” he admits readily. “I’m counting on you to follow through and make it work.”

“Do you trust that I can do it?”

“Not really,” he says almost too honestly. “But I don’t really have a choice anymore, do I?”

It hurts to hear that and it feels like I got gut punched again. We reach the metal staircase on the side of the hangar and I lift him to stand on his legs. It feels really, really bad to hear that he doesn’t trust me. Me, Momota Kaito, renowned for being trustworthy and honorable, even in space! Even worse, I don’t know why I care what a guy like Ouma thinks of me. But I do, and I care a great deal.

“You should trust me,” I announce. “I pledged myself to you!”

“You had no choice,” he retorts.

“I’m a man of my word!”

“You’re a bigger fraud than I am,” he snaps back and breaks away from my arms to stumble towards the camera rig. “Get in the press. We’re running out of time.”

I stare at him, shocked by the insult and hurt that it’s based in a deep truth. I can’t deny it or rebuke him for saying it.

“Is your skull so thick that you already forgot the next step, Momota-chan? Get in the press,” he repeats himself with a sharp tongue, even though his voice is small and I can hear the hurt in it.

There’s nothing further to discuss, so as per our terrifying agreement, I stumble down the industrial stairs and remove my jacket as Ouma previously instructed me. I lay it out on the compactor, then crawl in the open space between the two big metal slabs. There’s no clock and no way to tell how much time has passed. Everything feels distorted and I’ve lost grip of my ability judge time lapses. So here I lay, anxiously tapping my fingertips against the metal and waiting.

“Okay!” Ouma calls down to me. “The camera is set. Don’t move at all until I say so!”

I brace myself, swallow the nervous lump in my throat, and sit very obediently still. A mechanical rumble echoes through the hangar and the heavy press begins to descend from above. It creaks and moves smoothly, lowering evenly and at an alarming rate towards me. I’m screaming in my mind, begging for Ouma to hit the emergency stop button. Every pore in my body opens and oozes with cold terror sweat. My knuckles are going white from the tension I’m putting them through. Please stop the press, please stop… I don’t want to be here or do this anymore. My heart feels like it’ll stop at any moment. I can smell the grease and oils that coat the gears of the machine, the hot odor of metal tickling the inside of nose as well. Every instinct in my body tells me to abscond, to leap out of the press, to escape and survive. But I fight that urge and remain as still as I’m able.

And then...the press creaks to a stop. It halts before my eyes and I let go of my breath and my tension but the horror still resides in my chest. I have to put Ouma in the press. I pull myself out and my legs work against my will and carry me back up the steps once more to retrieve him. It’s only been a few more minutes, but he looks even worse than before. Deep bags are setting under his eyes, purple and not at all complementary to the natural shade of his irises. His skin is as pale as a moth, giving ample view to the grotesque ways his veins seem to swell and bulge beneath his skin. He looks like a caricature of his former self. I have to remind myself that he’s not long for this world, regardless of whether or not I put him in that press. I don’t want to be a murderer… but if I don’t, then the blame falls to Harumaki. And can I truly live with myself if that’s the path I choose? I can’t. And so reluctantly, I gingerly strip Ouma of his tattered top and pick him up. He shouldn’t be walking like this. 

I think he’s too tired to resist as well. He’s limp and frail in my arms and allows me to handle him as necessary. Holding Ouma feels so weird. He weighs next to nothing in my arms, but it still puts some strain on me. I’m still injured and I’m still still sick. But I have to be strong, for all of us. I’ve always felt like I was meant to take on the roll of carrying the team and taking on a position of leadership, but now in the throes of it and being forced to take charge… I really really hate this. More than anything. My knees buckle with every step I wobble down the flight of stairs with this little rag doll in my arms. There’s an oddness to the whole thing here, from the way we went from fighting in what was nearly a death match to desperately holding each other close in these final minutes. I don’t have enough time or energy to process my feelings. Even if I did, I don’t know that I could. So much has changed so fast. Before I know it, I’m standing in front of the press machine and laying him into it atop my blazer as if I’m laying an infant to rest in his cradle. He lays flat on his back inside it, unmoving save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

“Ouma… are you okay?”

It’s a stupid fucking question. Of course he’s not okay. It’s written all over him, inside and out. He’s dying. I’m dying. Neither of us are okay. But I sort of need him to lie to me one more time. Somehow I want more than ever to hear his saccharine voice tell me just one more lie, ironically his lies being the only constant truth remaining here. But he says nothing. His tired eyes droop and he lets his head fall towards his shoulder and he looks up to me from his undignified death bed. I don’t know what compels me to do it, but I reach between the big metal slabs to hold his hand for a fleeting moment. Maybe it’s because my heart is hurting. So for the second time in our lives, I find myself touching Ouma’s hand. I’m more aware of it this time- it’s more intentional. I cup his small palm and take note of the narrow bones, the short-ish fingers, the texture and length of his nails, the way his skin feels so cold and clammy especially in contrast to my own rough, dry hands. He musters enough strength to slap me away. It stings in my chest more than my hand and I wince. But then he pulls me back only an instant later to more properly lace our fingers together. He squeezes gently and I return the gesture. I don’t know what we’re communicating to each other in this but I feel a bit grateful for the contact anyway.

“I’m gonna win this, Momota-chan,” he grunts out in a weak voice that sounds nothing at all like the Ouma I’ve begun to know over our time together in this hell.

“I won’t let you down,” I promise him and squeeze his cold flesh a little harder.

“Mmm…” he makes a noncommittal sound under his breath and slips away from my touch before retreating into his final position on the flat metal plank.

It’s time and we both know it. I take in one final glimpse at him, though from his sorry state I almost wish I hadn’t. I scrunch my eyes shut and grit my teeth, trying to remember Ouma from just yesterday. Why does it have to be like this? Fuck… fuck, man…

My tense legs lead my back up the stairs. I can’t waste any more time and I can’t allow for any more suffering, but I’m so reticent to commit to hitting that button and solidifying both our fates. I feel pigeon-holed, and without a voice. I feel nauseous. I’m miserable. I might hyperventilate. I can’t hold it together. But I fuckin’ have to. My body moves of its own volition and paces back and forth with increasing anxious speed atop the metal landing in front of the press. I can’t see him from this angle. All I can see is the paused metal press hovering in its position. 

I have to do it, I can’t resist the necessary evil any longer, I can’t bring myself to do it, I don’t want to be a murderer, I don’t want Harumaki to be a murderer, I need to hit the button, I can’t stop yelling, I don’t know why I’m yelling, I have to hit the button, I can’t tell if that’s my own voice, I don’t want to kill Ouma, I have to hit the button, I can’t turn back, I have to hit the button, I promised Ouma, I have to do it, I have to hit the button, I don’t want to break my promise, I have to hit the button, I can’t let anything happen to Harumaki, I don’t want to be a killer, I have to-

My thoughts come to a halt and I see my knuckles gripped in a harsh fist, holding the activation button firmly in place. My heart rattles sickeningly in my chest in those horrific few moments it takes for the press to drop. There’s a vile, unsettling crunch...and then there’s blood. There’s more blood than I’ve ever seen. That’s all that’s left of Ouma. It’s done. I’ve carried out his request. My voice is hoarse, my eyes and limbs burn, and I’m nauseated beyond all belief as the literal life oozes and leaks from between the hunks of metal stuck together. Shit. Shit, shit, shit...

We’ll never know anything else, now. What was he thinking this whole time? What was he thinking only moments ago? I don’t know why or how half the events that have happened over the last few hours have happened. Ouma… That guy was like the dark side of the moon, or something. It’s like, he was always there… and we knew he was there. But, really, who was he? Now that I’ve been stripped of the opportunity I never realized I wanted, I have to accept that I’ll never have that closure.

I’m suddenly angry. I’m suddenly invigorated with a new wave of strength and I’m fueled by my unbridled need to fucking destroy something else. I yell aimlessly and thrash my arms wildly against the equipment surrounding me, punching wildly at anything within my reach until my vision blurs and my knuckles are cracked and bleeding. Why is this so unfair?! Why the fuck is any of this necessary? I’m too shocked and angry to cry, but it suddenly occurs to me that there’s probably only a few minutes left before the electro-bomb wears off and all of this will come to naught. So I do my best to make quick work of it, deciphering Ouma’s notebook as best I can. I complete the tasks required of me with as little emotion as possible, working with purpose. I destroy the equipment that I can. I dispose of the items asked of me. I crawl into hiding in the nearby exisal to wait, gripping Ouma’s notes and read them over and over and over until I can’t stand reading the same words written by a dead boy any longer. 

I’ll do my best, Ouma. I gotta hold it together, for everyone. It’s my last chance, after all. I won’t let you down.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again for reading! Any and all feedback is welcome, and I'm open to requests and suggestions for other fics in the future! 
> 
> Come chat with me on twitter @toujou_ I am far more responsive on there than on here and it'd be cool to be your friends!


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